


Realization

by lyricalsoul



Series: Hiatus [10]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angry!Lestrade, Angst, M/M, Poor Lestrade, Poor Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade gives Watson a nudge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Realization

"This has gone on long enough, John."

I look up at Lestrade, who is seated on the settee, smoking a cigar. "What has?"

"Oh, please," he says, blowing a ring of smoke in my direction. "You know what I mean."

"We have an agreement," I remind him sharply.

"It was stupid and selfish of me to agree to such a one-sided deal."

"Hardly one-sided. Gustave."

He stubs out the cigar and shakes his head. "Oh, so that's how it is then, Dr. Watson?"

I put the paper aside, and duck my head in embarrassment. "My apologies. You are the only friend I've left. You make sure I eat, bathe, and keep me sane. I'd be lost without you."

"Not so, John. You are still lost, regardless of my intervention."

I do not respond to this, as he is right. It's been nearly three years, and I haven't recovered from Holmes' death, nor do I expect to. I gave up my practice, my writing, my club... I don't want to talk to anyone, don't want to hear the platitudes and see the looks of sympathy at my red-rimmed eyes and unkempt appearance. And I most certainly don't want anyone asking me when I'll pick up my pen again. The only person I can tolerate is Lestrade, and that is only because he doesn't want anything of me... except a discreet rendezvous now and again. Ours is a relationship of convenience, mutual need, and commiseration. Now he wants to change things.

"I thought I was doing better," I finally manage.

"Well, compared to two years ago, I'm sure you are," he says. "But not really. You are just the ghost of John Watson. A shadow of the vibrant, passionate man you were. You may as well have died with Sherlock Holmes."

I leap from my chair, fists balled. "You've no right to say such things to me!"

My outburst doesn't faze him. "I beg to differ. John." He stands up and moves beside me. "You know that I do not mind our... arrangement. But... you're not well, my friend, and it's killing me. Holmes," his voice breaks a bit, and he clears his throat. "Holmes wouldn't want you to carry on so."

"Holmes is dead." My tone is flat and hard. "So it hardly matters."

"Oh, it matters, you fool. You were entrusted with the task of being his biographer. There are dozens of stories you've never told. You have stacks of journals and notes of cases all around. Why not take up your pen and write? Fulfill your destiny."

"Destiny?" I snort and sit back in my chair. "I lost everything, Lestrade. I am a bitter man, who drinks to excess, and can barely force myself to rise in the morning."

"But you do rise," he insists, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. He sighs. "I've lived a hard life, John. Seen things, done things that would send a normal man to Bedlam. So have you. And you survived. A man like Holmes trusting and loving you is an honour. You owe it to his memory to get off your arse and do something."

I put my hand over his. He is right again. As much as Holmes means to me, I cannot discount the effect Lestrade's presence has had on me. He has been steadfast, loyal, and impervious to my bouts of depression, to my constant emotional outbursts, and my selfishness. I take all he has to give and more, ravishing him at will, but never giving him the same opportunity. He has given me his love and affection, and in return, I've given him roughness and anger in the form of sex. I frown as I realize I do not think we've ever shared an actual kiss. Yet he remains by my side without complaint.

"You deserve to be treated better," I say quietly.

He kneels down to sit at my feet. "That isn't the point. This is about you. And what you need to do."

"What, then?"

"Write, John. Contact your publisher. Go to Harley Street, get the help you need, and then get back to practising medicine. I have a place for you in the department. Police surgeon. And you can help me with some of my more... baffling crimes. It's your talent, your gift. It's the only way you'll ever be happy."

"Holmes-"

"He's gone, man!" He looks up at me, his dark eyes imploring me to understand what he's trying to say. "You're still here to carry on his legacy. Is it going to be bitterness and anger, or will you take up your pen and show the world how much you loved him?"

"I..." I place a hand on his head, and stroke the silky dark strands of his hair. So much like Holmes, but yet so different. The same innate curiosity, the same determination to be right... even when wrong. "I won't make any promises, Lestrade."

"I've never asked you for any," he replies. "Just try. Isn't that the motto of the firm?"

A sob rises in my chest, and I cough to cover it. "It is."

"At least shave off the beard."

I laugh and pull him against my legs. "You are indeed a treasure, Gustave. I may still be lost, but without you, I'd be dead."

He smiles and pats my knee. "I'll make an appointment with my barber."


End file.
